teach me stillness
by saltzmans
Summary: In which Derek is the new Defense Against the Darks Art teacher and Stiles is a Slytherin with a plan to get laid—HogwartsAU; sterek.


**notes **| yeah, so this was meant to be a one shot...next chapter should be up soon!

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**chapter one**

Stiles Stilinski never _meant _to set the Gryffindor Table on fire. It wasn't as if he simply took a bite of his toast and thought, hey, you know what this toast would taste great with? A raging inferno of flames and a bit of strawberry jam. No. It was far more complicated than that; the whole incident was a whole series of horrifically unfortunate events – the choice selection being Scott's generally idiocy, Lydia's Breakfast Wake Me Up potion and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher eating wheetabix in the most attractive way possible – and for some ridiculous reason, unknown to pretty much everyone, Stiles had ended up slap bang in the middle of the whole goddamned mess.

Looking back, Stiles supposed the morning started pretty well – or as well as being woken up at six o'clock in the morning by one of his so called friends throwing a wet towel at his face could be. Groaning and attempting to wrestle a damp _Chudley Cannon's _towel off his face, Stiles fell out of bed in a heap on the floor. Isaac Lahey, stood by the bathroom door emitting a sound which could only be described as a cackle, as he wrapped another towel round his lean waist.

"Screw you, Lahey," Stiles moaned, collapsing onto his rug, wondering how many extra minutes of sleep he could get away with, and still avoid being late for his first class. He was pretty sure first period was potions and if Professor Harris still had that grudge from the shrinking elixir last year, Stiles wasn't particularly sure he wanted to get on the potion master's bad books during the first lesson of the year.

Realizing that sleep was absolutely futile with Isaac retreated into the bathroom, singing an irish ballad with little tune and absolutely no rhythm, Stiles clambered off the floor and threw Isaac's towel at the second member of the Gryffindor Dorm. Scott awoke with a jolt, looking wildly around the room. Then he saw Stiles and fell back on his bed, glaring at his friend. "What was that for?" He grumbled. "I was having a nice dream!"

Stiles snorted and raised an eyebrow. "About _Allison_?" he sang, winking at his friend.

Stiles got a towel in his face again as Scott rolled sleepily out of bed. "What're you even doing here, Stiles?" Scott asked, pulling his pajama top off. "I thought you promised McGonagall that you'd stick to your own dorm!"

"Yeah, well that was before Jackson and Lydia decided to have sex in Jackson's bed – which is less than two meters away from mine, may I add – and I discovered even silencing charms can't block out–"

"Ew, no." Scott picked up the offensive towel and chucked it on Isaac's bed. "I get your point, but how did you even guess the password? I mean, dude, we've only been back like a day!"

Stiles shrugged, nonchalantly searching for his school shirt in the pile of clothes by the bed. "You Gryffindor's are predictable."

"I–you should've been in Ravenclaw." Scott gave up, running a hand through his mop of messy hair. "Where's Boyd anyway? You didn't kick him out of his bed did you?"

"Boyd has spent every first night of school with Erica, since fourth year after they first–"

"You're impossible," Scott told him and Stiles got hit in the face by that goddamn _Chudley Cannons _towel for the third time that morning.

Someone had to remind him to give it to Hagrid's Blast Ended Skrewts next time Isaac wasn't looking.

.

Half an hour later, after a small incident with an out of date exploding toothbrush, Stiles dragged Scott and Isaac over to the Slytherin Table where he sat down next to Lydia. Jackson was sitting next to her and Stiles shot his roommate a withering glare.

Jackson looked faintly amused and took a sip of pumpkin juice. "Good night, Stilinski?" he asked, casually.

"Fabulous," Stiles replied, spooning marmite onto his toast. "Your moaning really contributes to the good quality of my sleep."

Scott looked slightly sick as Jackson choked on a bit of sausage.

"Boys!" Lydia rolled her eyes. "We have more important matters to discuss."

"Such as?" Scott asked.

"The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," –Lydia sent a conspirative look towards the teachers table before continuing– "I've heard there's something up with him. He was like some famous..."

Stiles let Lydia's words wash over him, and instead followed her gaze to the teachers – McGonagall, Sprout, Hagrid, Harris, Jones and..._damn. _Stiles' eyes widened a fraction. Lydia was certainly right when she had said something was _up _with the new teacher. If up was the new term for the most fucking attractive man Stiles had ever seen in his whole entire life. Literally. And Stiles shared a room with Jackson Whittemore so that was bloody saying something.

Stiles studied the man – his eyes traveling over the prominent jaw line, stubble, blue eyes, dark hair–

_Shit._

Blue eyes. Blue eyes which were...currently looking straight at Stiles. _Fuck. _Stiles dropped his gaze, hurriedly reaching for the first object he can find and then several things happen at once.

Stiles took a sip of the goblet he just picked up and a hot sensation burnt down his throat. The goblet fell from his hand, splashing it's contents all over Scott who let out a string of curses whilst Stiles, eyes blind from the spice, tried to find something to quench the _burning_ but instead knocked what he's later told was Jackson's wand and all of a sudden everything is on fire.

The Great Hall erupts into chaos. Stiles' group of friends leapt back from the table with varying degrees of elegance – Stiles was pretty sure Jackson falls on his butt at some point but Lydia's fucking drink had made him too disorientated to focus on anything properly. In the disarray, the tail of Isaac's robe caught on a piece of flaming bacon and then the entire hem is on fire. Lydia screamed and tripped back into the row of spectators, just as a jet of icy water hit Stiles, Scott, Isaac, Jackson and sent them falling back into the – thankfully – fire free table, landing on the soggy remnants of the breakfast.

There was a deadly silence throughout the hall. Then someone snorted. Someone else let out a chuckle and all of a sudden the whole room was awash with laughter and shouts.

"Did you _see _that?"

"Who would've thought _porridge _was flammable!"

"They are in _so_ much shit!"

On that happy note, Stiles' vision cleared and blinking rapidly, he looked apprehensively at the crowd of people. Isaac was trying to cover up the gaping hole in the back of his trousers, which were displaying the brightest orange boxers Stiles had ever seen; Scott was sitting miserably to Stiles' right, milk dripping down the side of his face; Jackson had a nasty bruise appearing on the left of his face; Lydia was trying to explain everything to a furious McGonagall.

Stiles' buried his head in his hands.

That was most definitely _not _the brilliant start to the year he had been hoping for.

.

The day only got worse from there.

After being told off by McGonagall in front of the entire school and subjected very loudly to three weeks of detention, they were told to go and change which in turn resulted in Jackson and Stiles being fifteen minutes late for potions. Which obviously wasn't punishment enough because Stiles accidentally ended up putting wolfs claw instead of wolfs teeth in his memory potion, which for future reference ended in a large explosion, _more _fire and Stiles being kicked out of the classroom.

It's not as if being sent out off class is a particularly new experience in Stiles' book but it still makes him angry. He had been determined to start afresh this year but he'd already been subjected to public humiliation _twice _and they hadn't even finished the first day.

Somehow Stiles didn't see that as a vision for good things to come.

Deciding that he really didn't wanted to face the wrath of Harris again, and seeing that there were only ten minutes of the lesson left, Stiles decided to go to his next class early. Hey, he might've be able to get on at least one teacher's good side before the day was out. That was, of course, if the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher hadn't already decided he was a violent sadist who enjoyed spontaneously blowing up breakfast tables. Which of course, knowing Stiles' luck, he probably had.

The DADA class was empty, as Stiles peered cautiously round the door. It hasn't changed much since the Professor Weasley retired last year and Stiles found it oddly comforting. Deciding to go in, Stiles settled himself at the front desk, chewing the hangnail on his right thumb. Then the door opened and it took a moment for Stiles to realise he in fact hadn't died and awoken in a porn movie, it's just that Professor McHottie had appeared in the doorway but–

"I'm pretty sure you need a shirt with that?" The words escaped Stiles' mouth before he was fully aware of what he's saying. Then he turned beetroot as the teacher sent him a glare which Stiles wouldn't put past ending global warming.

"What are you even doing here?"

Damn. Even his voice was sexy.

"I–I got sent out of potions." Somehow Stiles managed to keep his voice steady. "There was an explosion, y'know?"

Something clicked in the teachers eyes. "Right. The Arsonist."

Stiles almost buried his head in his hands. "That's the one."

"That was quite a display."

"I do try." Stiles tried to keep his eyes plastered on the black pair of corduroy trousers rather than the bare chest above and attempted to keep a sassy comment about _other _displays from escaping.

"Well, I'm still trying to get ready, so if you wouldn't mind waiting–"

Stiles almost tripped over his feet stumbling out of the classroom. Ten minutes later his friends found him staring at the portrait of an elderly, fat auror and odd look on his face.

"Did getting kicked out of potions really scar you _that _much?" Jackson asked.

Stiles was just about to reply when the classroom door flew open and the sixth years filed in, sitting down in rows. Stiles stared straight at the teacher who was scrawling his name on the board.

_Professor Hale. _

Lydia threw a scrunched up ball of paper onto Stiles' desk.

_Even his name sound hot. _

Stiles smirked and begins to scrawl a message back–

_The things I would do to–_

All of a sudden the paper shot out of Stiles' grip, his quill leaving a big black mark across the desk.

"I–" Stiles reached pathetically for the paper but it was already being read by a expressionless Professor Hale. All eyes in the class were fixed on the teacher, waiting for his reaction.

Stiles thought idly – through his layers of utter humiliation – that this would be a wonderful time to sink into the floor but sadly, fate doesn't fall the way he wants it do because–

"Do to _what _exactly?" Professor Hale asked.

Next to Stiles, Isaac let out a strangled choke.

"Cat got your tongue, Mr Stilinski?" Hale raised an eyebrow.

"Something like that," Stiles muttered.

"Ten points from Slytherin for note passing," Professor Hale turned back to the board. "Now, this year is a very testing one in your books, as you begin your NEWTs–"

Stiles allowed the words wash over him, his fingers tapping against the desk, thinking that there was an incredibly high chance that he was about to fall ridiculously and awfully in love with Professor Hale.

And like any worthwhile Slytherin, he was going to get Professor Hale.

Preferably in his bed.

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